May 31, 2005

• I hope everyone’s holiday weekend was fabulous, and for those of you who didn’t get the day off today, you have my deepest sympathies. I’ve been there.

  While walking home with my canvas sacks of groceries today, I saw a brief spat between a couple that inspired me to write a little ditty. It’s not done yet, but without feedback, what is? Enjoy!

  Kick the Can
  © The Author, 2005

  “Lets be on the warm side,” Samantha said, playfully pulling me across the street and away from the shadows cast by the tall neighborhood condos. The sun made her even more beautiful than usual. I tried to look casual as I glimpsed the goose bumps on the bare skin of her shoulders melt like butter. Girls should wear halter-tops more often.

  We were on our way to a barbeque at my college roommate Jay’s new pad in Wicker Park. I was stewing a bit about Jay’s new digs—we had only just graduated college in early May and already Jay had secured a fat and steady paycheck from JP Morgan (where, coincidently, his dad had been working for 35 years). While Jay was spending his post-graduate days crunching numbers in his new accounting position and his nights throwing back brews on his disgustingly large deck, I was back living with my parents in Glencoe and working at the same reeking chicken joint that I worked at in High School. Not that I envied Jay’s life per se; as far as I was concerned, a paint-by-numbers life only hurtled you towards death faster. I was just unsure of what any other life might look like. So far, my attempts at authentic living added up to an undergraduate degree in environmental science, a managerial position at a shitty restaurant, and Samantha. And lucky for me, Samantha was gorgeous.

  Sam and I met at work. My first day back on the job, I was stocking the walk in freezer with rib slabs—careful to not account for enough that I could sneak a few out without notice—when I heard the owner Tim’s irritating nasal voice in the kitchen. Anyone who’s ever worked in a kitchen knows that whenever the owner comes in, everything goes to shit, so I swung the freezer door open hard, eager to make myself look productive and capable enough that Tim would go back home for the night. I didn’t consider the possibility that a beautiful brunette carrying a huge bowl of coleslaw would be smack dab in the path of the barreling stainless steel door. The first time I laid eyes on Sam, she was removing a bowl of mayonnaise-ed cabbage from her breasts and laughing.

  Thank god she was laughing.

  Closing the restaurant that night was the only time that I have actually put the chairs up on the tables before sweeping and mopping. Usually I just skim over the general area, rushing out of the place to catch a late movie with friends or to get high and go to the Steak and Shake, but that night I wanted to stay as long as possible with this smiling, hazel eyed girl. Plus, most of my buddies were gone, either to grad school or off working in the city. I was the only looser that had stayed in Glencoe.

  As she wrapped the silverware—more than she needed to, I noticed—she told me about her life as a psychology student at Northwestern University. She had one more year left and absolutely no clue as to what she wanted to do after graduation.

  “I like the science of psyc, but I don’t know if I could handle listening to people’s fucked up lives all day long for the rest of my life, you know?”

  Of course I did.

  We kissed that night in the parking lot and she smelled like chicken grease and sour coleslaw. But her hair smelled remarkably clean, which is more than I can say after sweating out a closing shift.

  “I’d like to see you sometime when we’re not at work, okay?”
  “Of course,” I said, kissing her pleasantly shiny forehead.
  Of course.

  After a month of groping in the walk in freezer and star gazing on the roof of my car after work (where, I feel inclined to mention, we groped further), I was bringing her to meet Jay, which I was hoping would really tick him off since he is a pussy when it comes to dating. Sam was looking particularly hot that day, and she was so smiley and fun that I had almost forgotten my Jay-envy (not that I envied him—just his deck and his money, which hopefully Samantha wouldn’t notice).

  “You look distracted,” She said, looking up at me through her bangs.
  “Nope.”
  “Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?” She cooed.

  I was sort of getting sick of her asking that. Half the time I wasn’t thinking anything, and the other half I knew that honesty was only the best policy for ensuring that I’d get dumped. For instance, last week while we were sharing an M&M blizzard at the Dairy Queen, I was pondering the possible significance of a dream I had about shitting out a whole, peeled carrot. My mind drifted to the imagery of the squeaky-clean carrot bobbing around in the toilet bowl (my dreaming mind debating if it would be wasteful to flush) when Sam chimed in with her favorite question.
  “Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?”
  I told her I was thinking about her eyes.

  On this day, I skirted the question by kissing the top of her head, and when she turned her face to look up at me, I leaned down to kiss her lips. This action produced a clang.

  “Oh shit!” Samantha squealed. Someone had left a half full Lipton ice tea can (who drinks that poison anyways?!) on the sidewalk and Sam had kicked its contents onto her fresh pedicure mid-smooch. I chuckled.

  “It’s not funny!” She said, smiling and playfully smacking me with her miniature purse. She shook her foot off and slipped her arm around me, and began to walk. I paused.

  “Aren’t you going to pick it up?” I asked.
  “No—I didn’t leave it there!”
  We separated a bit. I wasn’t sure if she would get pissed if I picked up the can, although it was hard for me not to. I’ve always just sort of done that kind of thing.
  “Yeah, but you ran into it—are you just going to leave it?”
  “You’ve got to be kidding.”
  I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to ruin things before Jay’s. What did it matter anyhow? Trying to be light hearted, I squeezed my arms around Sam, “It’s okay, litterbug.”
  She pushed me. “I am not a litter bug. That fucking can is not my responsibility.”
  “Whose is it?”
  Things were tense for real now, and I didn’t know how to navigate since we’ve never really been tense with each other before, let alone over something as ridiculous as a can. If things were going to be crap between us weather the can was there or not, I thought the least I could do is pick up the fucking can, but when I made my move, Sam snorted.
  “What, are you trying to guilt trip me about this or something?”
  “No. I’m just picking up the can. Don’t worry about it.”
  “Fine. Be a do-gooder. I’m a bad person.”
  “You are not a bad person,” I said, putting my arm around her and holding the dripping can away from me.

  We kept on walking without saying anything. The sun was beating down on us and suddenly I was pissed off that Sam always wanted to walk on the “warm side.” What kind of a person wants to sweat bullets as the sun bounces off of all this godforsaken pavement? What kind of a person leaves a can?

  Sam was keeping herself occupied by gazing at all the fancy condos and peering into their windows at all the catalogue fresh decor (once even meowing to somebody’s vocal tom cat perched inside a first floor window). I couldn’t help but notice her interest in any possible thing that wasn’t me or my can holding.

  The can was beginning to dry and the sticky tea was crusting onto my fingers. An ant crawled out from under the tab and scurried about my hand hair and up my arm. I pretended not to notice. As we continued on, counting down the addresses, I was starting to feel like a real dumb ass because suddenly it seemed like all the garbage in the city was at my feet. How did I not notice before that this city was a jungle of trash? Plastic bags drifted aimlessly across intersections, cars rolled by tangling newspaper under their tires, dog shit dotted the walkways, and soon we passed the cherry on the cake: a used rubber, crusted with dirt, and cemented grossly to the sidewalk like a baked worm. At this, Samantha couldn’t help herself.

  “Are you gonna pick that up too?” She taunted.

  I didn’t answer. My can clung to my hand and I cursed the day its owner left it. I cursed the city for not supplying the neighborhoods with garbage cans. I cursed Sam for making me feel like such an idiot. I cursed myself for being such an idiot. Hot tears were starting to well up at the back of my stupid, can saving face.

  “Hey, 1845 N. Wood. This is it. Wow—it’s so big!”

  I looked at the building that Sam was gaping at. It was monumental. Brand spanking new, the cold grey building looked almost like a grand ship setting sail; the curving decks and round windows had a definite nautical flair to them. The musty goodness of barbeque filled the air and Dave Mathews blared on the stereo. A hideously tan Jay called down to us from the second story deck, waving his cold Guinness.

  I waved back, hiding my rancid can behind my back.

  “Hey man! Come on in—I’ll buzz ya!”

  I looked at Samantha and she seemed to glare at me, disgusted. Next summer Samantha would definitely not be back at the chicken shack. She would be living in a place like this, sleeping with a sell-out like Jay. And all I would have was my fucking can.

  As the buzzer broke the silence between us, I came to my senses and re-abandoned the stinking can on the sidewalk; after all, this place was too nice to bring some rotting can into. How far does personal responsibility actually go, anyhow?

  After the unburdening of the can, it wasn’t like I was expecting Sam and I to embrace and spout forth reconciliations like it was a scene from Gone with the Wind or some shit, but when Sam rolled her eyes at me when I met her gaze, I knew that it was over. We walked through the door anyhow.

  ____________________________________________________________________________________________________
  What have you witnessed recently that has inspired you?

  • 12:50 am
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